Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.

...

10: Ignition

Ginny is a vision. Her red hair is wrapped in a sleek up-do and her dress deep vermillion with sequins across the bodice. She beams when she sees me, her fingers entwined with Harry's, who looks both dashing and uncomfortable. His black hair is still a mess and his eyes a secret green. His lightning bolt scar is hidden behind his fringe. I smile to them as I wait, standing just beside the inside steps to the hall with the music at my back. I arrived early and unaccompanied and every second was spent wishing for my friends. Ron, Fred and George have yet to arrive and Luna decided not to come for fear of some strange, decidedly imaginary creature.

'You look beautiful, Ginny,' I tell her sincerely and give her a hug. I turn to Harry. He smiles, opens his arms and we embrace like the old friends we are. He leaves a kiss on my cheek and I smile to the ground.

'So do you, Hermione,' says Ginny.

'Yeah, you do,' Harry agrees, his lopsided smile shining bright. I refuse to meet their eyes and resist the urge to shake my head. My dress is plain and brown, the colour of dirt, and my hair is still as wild as ever with clips to hold it away from my face and cheap ribbons threaded through for attempts at feminine delicacy. I clasp my hands and fight the words of disagreement appearing as metaphorical bile in my throat.

Harry looks around. 'Where's Ron?'

'Yet to arrive, I think.' I shrug. 'I'm sure he'll find you first when he does.'

Ginny places a hand on my arm. 'He was going to ask you, Hermione. He was, just—'

'We're just friends,' I remind her firmly. 'Good friends, despite the past.'

She pouts. 'I really wish it would have worked out.'

'Fat chance,' Harry mutters and both of us glance at him. He rubs the back of his neck and I smile toward him and his nervous antics. 'Gin, I'm just going to go ahead, you know… you just, er, continue on in, mingle or whatever it is you do here. I'll get us some drinks. Hermione?'

I shake my head and Ginny kisses his cheek before she and I watch him dash inside. 'Don't know what he's going on about,' laughs Ginny.

But I do.

('You still love him, don't you?'

'With all my heart.')

As we go in I feel even more out of place. Lavender is wearing a ball gown and the Patil twins are in dress robes. The men are wearing suits and ties with their hair tamed and their faces clean shaven. I halt at the archway and stare up at the stars falling down in spirals from the ceiling. The room is decorated in red, gold, silver and white and mistletoe creeps down from both obscure and strategic points. 'Let's go find Dean,' Ginny says, taking my hand. She leads me through the throng of people and I latch onto her hand as if it were my lifeline from the things that could harm me. I do not want to be lost physically when I am already lost in every other way. Let this be sacred.

But my deep-set wound is aggravated and I start to bleed. Oliver Wood stands with Malibu Barbie on his arm, animatedly gesturing with Dean Thomas in what can only be a discussion of sports. Though he looks like he stepped from my dreams – like the James Bond of the wizarding world – my eyes lock on the blonde on his arm: model thin, gorgeous, tanned skin, hair the colour of spun gold and a heart shaped face holding a winning smile that shines the beauty of a thousand suns. Her laugh is faultless music and her almond eyes Hope diamonds.

'Wow,' Ginny breathes, pointing. 'Who's that? Her legs must be a mile long!'

I bring her hand down. 'It's rude to point, Gin,' I mumble, staring at the shimmering dress cut above the woman's knees. 'I think her name's Claire.'

'Seems to suit her,' Ginny comments. She grasps my hands excitedly. 'You always know the most obscure facts, so tell me: What's it mean?'

I shake my head. 'Well, vaguely "clear, bright, famous".' I tell myself I will not run away. I will not go to a shadowed alcove and stay there until it is polite to leave. I look up, my face set in a smile that is far from truthful. 'We should come back later.'

Ginny eyes my fixed smile in that scrutinising way she does when she is a human lie detector. 'What is it?'

'Leave it… please. Let's just enjoy the night. You'll dance with Harry and come back starry-eyed, Fred and George will have another brilliant idea and I'll…'

Ginny drops my hands and hers snap to her hips. 'I swear if you sit down and read somewhere I'll burn all of your books in a second, absolutely every single one.'

I laugh. 'You'll never find my hidden stash, Ginny.'

'Oh no, never,' says a voice behind me. I turn and see the twins, one with a blue shirt and the other in a green shirt, both open-collared. Their suits are dark as midnight and their smiles broad as they always are at these functions. 'Ginny, Hermione, beautiful as always.'

I frown. 'You're supposed to be wearing ties.'

They roll their eyes. 'When have we ever done what we're supposed to do?' I shrug and the frown on my face does not fade. 'We've come to warn you.'

I stomach drops. Ginny eyes him. 'About what?' she asks, and their mischievous grins reassure me.

The two of us turn on them with our hands on our hips, glaring. 'What have you done?' I ask, warning them too.

'Oh you wound us, Hermione.'

'Really, you should be grateful since we've come to notify you of the fact that Skeeter and her protégés are on the prowl. They're outside somewhere getting ready for battle.'

I share a glance with Ginny and we drop our arms, considering the situation. 'Should have known,' she says. 'Got a plan?'

'They doubt us, George,' says Fred – in the blue – and produces two bags from his inner pocket. 'Instant darkness powder: we're handing them out like candy. Throw that, the room goes black and we escape.'

'Only if we're desperate, of course,' continues George, nodding to himself as Fred hands them over to us. Ginny places hers in her clutch and I look at it, shrug and wandlessly shrink it enough to tuck into the top of my dress. 'We've got a backup plan if they're particularly resilient.' George winks and he and Fred depart.

Ginny accompanies me to greet Dean when we see him alone. He smiles as we approach and shakes both of our hands. 'It's really good to see you, girls. I'm really glad we can all be together. Make sure we're still here.' I smile sadly. Dean has taken to joking about the war to make light of the situation and I admire him for that. 'You both look lovely.'

'Thanks, Dean,' Ginny says. I nod and my smile is fixed again.

'Oh, Hermione,' he continues, snapping his fingers. 'Wood was asking about you, said he wanted to tell you something.' I gulp and involuntarily step back. 'If I saw you I was to direct you straight to him.'

I swallow, look up at him and try to blush spreading across my cheeks. 'Did he say what he wanted?'

Dean shakes his head. 'Nah. He was very vague about it. Almost like an afterthought.'

I nod again. 'I'll go see him, then,' I say, smiling. 'Thank you for hosting this.'

He smiles in return, his eyes understanding. Ginny pushes me forward. 'See you later,' she says and winks.

I turn and vanish into the crowd.

It hurts to look but I search for him and find him a second later by some stroke of unfortunate luck. The drink Ginny pressed into my hand, something light and repulsively fruity, almost falls to the wooden floor as I see him catch sight of me. Oliver and Claire dance on the dance floor to something slow and soft. They dance cheek-to-cheek like old, intimate lovers and I can hear her soft sighs from here. Our brown eyes are locked together by an ancient, enigmatic key. I cannot bear to look away and it hurts still to stare into those pleading depths.

Don't move, he is saying. Stay there, I'm coming.

My eyes cannot be torn from his no matter how loudly my intellect screams at me to just look away. I am caught in his web. Between us there is a golden link, a chain that was forged before time and is absolutely inescapable. This feeling is déjà vu that forces the memory of that day, that day when we kissed and I ran. I ran, and yet that link, that connection that makes us kindred despite time, persists to this day. The same burning feelings, the same truthful thought:

Caught. I shudder.

He sees and there is the ghost of a grin on his face. He grasps his girl by the shoulders and looks at her, eye-level, to speak to her and she nods. She and her mile-long legs head toward Angelina where they strike up conversation like a match and its box.

Then he is coming and I almost, almost run because he has a girlfriend and my intentions, whether I try to school them with morals and ethics or not, are not exactly honourable or in line with the delicacy of the situation of his attachment. He is attached and I have been in the past as well. Where does that leave us? Only not-quite lovers of the past?

It is the past that causes my feet to root themselves to the spot and refuse to flee. That flight or fight response born from years of growing and those years growing me too fast. I did not flee from the war, when the time came. We were always fighting.

First love should be no worse than certain death.

We always begin with Hello but this time we are silent and he stares at me for an eternity that is really only seconds. I never thought this supernatural drag on reality would happen again and it only happens around him. With him, I feel timeless.

I drown in his gaze and am tethered to his speech so when his mouth forms the words, 'Shall we dance?' I forget to say no. My nod is all he needs and he grasps my hand in his so he may lead me to the gates of Hell.

On the dance floor I catch sight of Claire watching us out of the corner of the hall with her diamond eyes. But I have waited for this for years and there is nothing left in me to stop him as he pulls me as close to him as he dares. He stops just before I would burn in hellfire. I can hear the words I should be thinking: This is wrong, this is so wrong.

And the ones I am: But it feels so right.

'We're always involved with other people, other things,' he murmurs. Claire cannot see his lips. 'It's always me with her or Quidditch, and you with them or saving the world.'

I become dizzy from his scent. 'I suppose it's part of the charm,' I reply, ashamed my voice sounds breathless. His hand is spread on the small of my back, two fingertips brushing bare skin before my dress begins. He is burning me. What if it scars?

He sighs and slackens his hold for the first time in moments, bringing us a hairsbreadth closer. 'I want to talk to you, Hermione, but maybe it's unwelcome.'

'No,' I shake my head. 'Never unwelcome.'

'Then maybe you can tell me what's going on.'

I swallow and can hardly look him in the eye again. 'What do you mean?'

He scoffs and I realise he is annoyed. 'Come off it. You're smarter than that. You're the smartest witch I know and you know what I'm talking about.'

I do. He is too intuitive for his own good. He has turned from thoughtless to thoughtful in these years, grown up enough to be people-smart from years of media awareness and to know that the events of three years past must be addressed.

I run my nails over the fabric of his suit jacket and try to avoid the seriousness of his face. He always was serious. 'But here?' I ask. 'What about… God, Oliver. It always ends so strange with you, or never begins at all. It is so strange with you. I don't know which way is up anymore.'

'You think this is hard?' He brings me closer still, our bodies a breath away. It is more intense than I ever dreamed it could be. My temple grazes his chin. We continue to sway, barely moving. He draws in a ragged breath and says, 'It's not. Try staying away from the girl who you— who drives you while you're building a goddamn career, and then you'll know the meaning of hard.'

I start at his harsh words and try to shift away to see his face but he holds on, his hand against my back spread wide. I hiss, 'Baby steps, Wood. Let me go.'

'No.'

'You're making the situation worse. This shouldn't be happening. We should be— not this. You're in a relationship.'

'I'd rather be a cheater than a coward, Hermione. I'm not the one running away whenever we try to have a conversation,' he snaps and draws away. 'If your brilliant brain has managed to define this situation, congratulations, 'cause I haven't got a clue.'

'I haven't. I just know it's going to turn illicit because all I want is—'

I stop and bite my lip, staring away at the floor. I can feel him coiled tight and smell his heady cologne that sends me stupid. I almost gave myself away. 'What do you want?' he asks, suddenly soft. I drag my eyes to his and see my want reflected in his darkened gaze, that heavy sense of understanding. Cautiously, sensing the end of our song, watching Claire watch us with hardening shards of jealous realisation, I place my head on his shoulder and bring my lips to his ear.

I drag in a breath like a smoker and feel like crying as I whisper harshly, 'You, okay? I want you.'

'Damn, Hermione.' His hands flex on my back and his fingers dip underneath the dress fabric. I shiver from the touch of cold. He steps closer and rasps, 'Damn it, I'd kiss you. You look so beautiful tonight.' The words burn. Warmth pools in my belly and I shiver, quiver and tremble under his touch. My eyes fall shut against the slow moving world.

Oliver holds me closer than he should and brings ours hands from their waltzing arc to press mine to his muscled chest. He places my palm on his thundering heart and its vibrations, its breaths and very essences are butterfly kisses to my soft skin. My hand is caught between our bodies and unable to escape. I do not want it to. Oliver's lips are near my temple, grazing my curls and he says, his voice harsh and husky, 'Letting you go was the one biggest mistake of my life.' Only I can hear it. Everyone else is faceless and unimportant. We are paused in the midst of swirling couples, close in an embrace with our hearts open, verbal and connected. My body is on fire from the contact.

If only time could pause here, I would taste eternal happiness from the blissful effects of my bravery. 'What are we?' My voice is small, incongruent with the screaming assent of my physical body. My head, my intellect, tells me that this cannot be without definition. 'Friends? Lovers?'

Oliver sighs and I feel him shake his head. 'I don't know.'

Suddenly, without warning, I feel a sob rise within me and it is verbalised. He steps back and looks at me, confused. I pull back, trying to curl into myself, and he drops our hands. It seems an age before we totally part. Oliver's gaze is earnest and strangely lost. I hug myself before him and look every other way but at him. I hate the fact that I am the one to step back again.

The dancers continue around us and we are lost in their whirlpool, standing still in the eye of their storm. Oliver waits, his hands in his pockets as he searches for reason. The air crackles between us.

'I can't do it.' I shake and tremble with the shocking depression that threatens to overwhelm me. I can feel it to my toes. 'I don't know what else I can let myself do. I know I... I can't be the other woman.'

'Hermione—'

'No—'

'Don't do this. Not now.'

'If not now, when?' I snap my gaze to his. 'I'd rather be a coward than a cheater. At least if I'm a coward, I'll have all of you.' His eyes are desperate and pleading and as he keeps my gaze, understanding fills them.

'Okay,' he says. 'Okay.' He sighs, steps forward and says, 'If you want to figure this out as much as I do then meet me outside in half an hour. I know it may not sound like much to you – and I completely deserve it – but I'm sorry for the way I acted.' Oliver lowers his voice and almost growls, 'I meant everything I said, Hermione. I never should have let you go and I won't now I've found you, not again.' I forget to breathe, staring down at the ground. He murmurs, 'Regardless of other people or things, that's one truth you can be sure of.'

I hug myself before him as the dancers exchange partners and we remain in stasis. I am still tethered to him and I am still dizzy. 'I'll be there,' I promise.

He nods and brushes passed me, his voice a whisper. 'And I'll be waiting.'

-x-x-x-

Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading.

-AA-